it's just a spark, but it's enough to keep me going
by makapedia
Summary: Adoption can be romantic too.


The sniffling catches her off guard.

Crying isn't exactly unheard of around the academy. In any school, really, with that many students, young and old, with so many hormones flying around - Maka thinks it's bound to happen at some point. Children are emotional, children are still growing and developing and _learning,_ and at the DWMA, these children are learning to meld their souls with one another and engage in battle with the creepy crawlies that walk the Earth.

So crying isn't exactly out of left field. But it's by the stairs, and the teacher in Maka almost breaks out into a run at the first hint of a breathy wail, until-

There's another voice, too. Much deeper and more calm, with a certain familiar, rumbly timbre that sort of acts as a balm to her rushing pulse. She pauses, by the door, hands pressed to the sleek, painted wood, barely parting the gates, as the sound of her weapon's music begins to echo.

Brows furrowed, Maka pushes a little more and peeks through the crack.

Sure enough, he's there, sitting on the front steps of the academy, surely slacking off from his official Death Scythe duties, one scythe-leg propped up on his knee. The whole sight is so familiar, and while part of her feels like a nagging, exhausted wife, because he's definitely supposed to be stationed in the Death Room right now, it's not even dinner time yet, what the hell, Soul - there's still a part of her that smiles fondly at him, the broadness of his shoulders, the wild mess of his hair, the way the tiny student next to him seems to soak up his song.

She's the youngest weapon in Maka's class. Lucie, clocking in at a feeble eleven years old; Maka swears they get smaller every year, get younger every year, and she wonders if this is how her father had felt, sending her off to her first day at class at twelve years old, with new combat boots and no partner to her name.

It had always felt so normal, to her. She'd gone her entire childhood expecting it, though; born and raised a legacy child, the daughter of the current acting Death Scythe and the meister who made him so, Maka had always known she'd end up attending the same school, living the same sort of death-defying life. At twelve, it hadn't even fased her. This was her normal. This was the only thing she'd ever known, really. Her destiny.

Maka bites her lip and cracks the door open just that much more. But Lucie- Lucie wasn't born here. Heck, Maka had been there when she'd stepped off the plane, Maka'd been the one holding the sign for DWMA students, because according to Black*Star and Soul, she had an approachable face.

And to be so young and thrust into such a world…. yeah, she can kind of see how it'd be jarring. To even be away from her parents at such a young, fragile age, is sort of terrifying. Or, even, the thought of sending her own child away, halfway across the world, before she'd even crossed the line of puberty yet, is-

There's a twinge from Soul's end of their bond. Maka lets out a breath, rubs her throat, blinking slowly.

(She doesn't… she doesn't _have_ kids. She's never.)

He says something to her, then, the tiny little weapon girl, and she sniffles and nods, wringing her hands in her lap. She's so small, when not made of steel, and that twinge strikes a chord in Maka instead, and she's struck. Soul says something else, plucks away at his scythe-keyboard, and Lucie giggles, still teary-eyed, and nods, scrubbing at her big blue eyes. There's something about watching him interact with her, something about the way her big, slouching weapon partner-turned-husband is so uncharacteristically open and soft with her, even, that's so directly opposite of what thirteen year old Maka had thought Soul would be like as an adult, and that distracting hum in her chest cracks open wide.

Whatever it is, it makes Soul look over his shoulder. Busted.

"W-What?" Lucie squeaks, tiny shoulders bunching up. "Wh-Who is it?"

Maka slips through the double doors and Soul shakes his head. "Eh, it's just your teacher. She's cool, trust me."

Lucie blinks twice, and oh, Maka bites her lip, walking over- her face is so pink, still so freshly tear-stained, and it's gotta be the dedicated educator in her that wants to protect this child. It has to be.

"Professor Albarn," she says, straightening as Maka approaches. "I- um-"

Maka bumps her knees gently against Soul's back. He leans into her, head pressed to her thighs, and she tries not to let it get to her, how easily they meld together- such a team, the two of them. A team, but Soul's way better comforting teary-eyed baby weapons than she'd ever anticipated, and he's got sort of this soft, warm-eyed look on his face that makes the crack in her gut burn, burn, burn.

"I hope you two are behaving out here," Maka says, then. Grapple onto some sort of normalcy. Try hard not to focus on the way Soul's still playing his keyboard, still lulling songs into the space between Lucie's breaths, so that she might forget to cry. "Death Scythe isn't getting you into any trouble, is he?"

"No!"

" _Hey,_ " he huffs. "You're the troublemaker, nerdling. Don't feed her lies."

She tugs his hair, just lightly. Lovingly, really. He sighs again and his leg flashes back to flesh and bone. "See what I mean? Meisters stick to you like glue. T's not so lonely when you've got someone around all the time."

That's- _oh._ Deceptively sweet. Such a rush of affection, out of nowhere, and Maka stops tugging his hair out of surprise.

Tiny little Lucie nods again, pressing her hands into her lap. She looks up, then, at Maka, big blue eyes wide and longing, and who is she to deny her comfort? Maka may not understand the displacement, might never understand the feeling of being so far away from home, in a world so alien like her own weapon might, but loneliness - the fear of abandonment - well, it's something she knows a little too well. Like the back of her hand.

"We're _partners,_ " Maka says. It's an age-old answer, written in her soul, embedded in her bones. The same excuse she'd given for years, when explaining what, exactly, Soul was to her was too difficult. "He's my best friend! Do you have a best friend?"

She nods, suddenly animated. "Angela!"

"Best friends are important. They're sort of like having a partner, before you're old enough to have one."

"Mmm. Angela's not a meister, though."

"That's okay. You can have more than one best friend."

This is, apparently, groundbreaking. Tiny little thing presses her hands to her mouth to cover her shock. "You _can?_ "

Soul shifts, huffing out a laugh. Drags himself to his feet, using Maka as an achor, and sighs, as if such a feat was actually exhausting. She thinks perhaps they've taken the weapon/meister bond a bit too far, sometimes - partners, come _partners_ , come spouses - but she still revels in the delight of having him lean and depend on her. It fills her with a satisfying sense of purpose, one she hasn't really felt since the days of rampant madness and kishin Asura.

"Sure," he says, stepping back to blanket over her. It's funny; for someone so shy, he seems to have no problem literally hovering over her and resting his chin on her head. He even goes as far to wrap his arms around her waist and _yawn_. "You can have as many friends as you want. Be like Ms. Albarn and surround yourself with friends."

Lucie chews her lip. "But… that's scary. People are scary. And what if they don't like me?"

"Hey, now," Soul says, very gently. Even leans off of his meister and offers a hand out to the younger weapon. "Everyone's scared. It's scary. _I'm_ scared all the time."

Big, glassy blue eyes peer up at him. "Y-You are? But- Death Scythe! You're so big!"

It's strange, watching it all go down. Strange, because while Maka is quite intimately acquainted with this tender, sensitive side of her partner, most are not privy to it. He does such a spectacular job of fronting, normally, of snarling and rolling his eyes and looming over her like a big bad guard dog. She, of course, knows it is all a facade, mostly - that deep down, Soul Evans is a big teddy bear, and likes to be the little spoon, that he enjoys spending time with tiny kittens and takes medication for his anxiety.

But it's not a side he exposes to most people. Certainly not strangers. And sure, Lucie is one of her students, but Soul's only popped into her classes on occasion, only to drop off her lunch or maybe bring her some papers - never long enough to actually know her, not the way he knows other people, even.

It sort of melts her heart. Just a little. Certainly thaws something in the pit of her chest she hadn't been aware of, and Maka presses her palm to her heart as he crouches down to Lucie's level.

He shrugs. "I'm not so big. Just kind of tall. 'Nd I didn't become Death Scythe by myself, you know. Mrs. Albarn worked really hard to help me collect all of those souls. It's easier to be brave when you have someone to share it with."

Lucie nods, lips pressed together.

Soul tousles her hair and she squeaks. "C'mon, we'll walk you back to the dorms. Nobody can pick on you with Mrs. Albarn around. _She's_ the scary one."

Lucie giggles and Maka drops her hand, burning pink. "Soul!"

.

She's still mulling it over while Soul chops potatoes for dinner.

The steady thump of his scythe-finger hitting the cutting board helps punctuate her thoughts. A steady thud, thud, thud as Maka melts onto the kitchen table, head propped up on her palms, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his elbow as he works. If she closes her eyes, she might be able to fall asleep, lulled into a sense of domestic security, warm and safe.

It's been so quiet in their apartment. It makes her fingers itch.

Thud. "You're good with kids, you know."

He pauses. She watches, through heavy lashes, as he shrugs. Drums his fingers on the counter and then says, "If you say so."

"You are." Thud thud. Chopped potatoes, plopping into the metal pot. "It's cute, you know. I didn't know you liked kids so much."

"Who said I liked kids?"

She sighs. Leans back into the old, rickety kitchen chair and stretches her legs out in front of her. At thirteen, she'd been barely able to touch the floor while seated at the table. Soul hadn't. The memory brings a smile to her face. It does nothing to lessen the yearning tugging in her gut. "You wouldn't have sat there and played her a song if you didn't."

Soul picks up another potato and resumes peeling. "She was crying, Maka."

"You didn't use to play for me when I cried."

Hook, line and sinker. He turns to look at her, his expression arranged into careful indifference. At thirteen, Maka might've been fooled, might've cried and shouted and pointed and accused him of being so careless and crass and indifferent, dammit - but she's known him too long, now. Knows him inside and out, soul deep, knows that he's flashing her the ol' Evans Facade, that something is brewing in there.

He rubs his thumb over the skin of the potato in his hand. "That's not fair. I was a brat when we were kids."

She smiles, all sugar. "You still are."

"Careful," he starts, waggling a scythe-finger at her with about as much ill-intent as a happy puppy. "Might take that ring back."

Over her dead body. They didn't hyphenate their last names for nothing. "It's not a bad thing, you know," Maka says, carefully, tone weighed as Soul leans back over the counter and begins peeling into the trash can, this time. "I think it's cute."

The back of his neck is suspiciously pink. "Gross."

" _You're_ cute." Might as well lay it on thick, while she's at it. Getting Soul to blush is such a guilty pleasure. He's cute, normally, with his dimples and half-smile and grigori soul tattooed to his wrist, but he's just darling when he's burning bright. The pink compliments his eyes. Really softens the harsh lines of his pursed pout.

Soul snorts. "Look in the mirror and then report back. I'm not the cute one here, bookworm."

"I think you're cute."

" _You're_ biased and I love you for it."

It makes her smile, but he's stalling, she knows it. And why avoid the question if he's not worried about his answer?

She thinks she understands, maybe, as she stands up and makes her way to the sink to wash her hands. Maybe, because they'd danced around their feelings for each other for years, because Soul had thought she would never like him and she'd been so afraid of following too closely in her parent's footsteps. Maybe, _maybe,_ because marriage had been such a big, scary thing for her, and he'd known it, and _maybe_ he worries his luck has run out and she won't want kids-

Maka turns the faucet off and shakes her hands dry. Or maybe he's worried about something else entirely.

"... I like kids, you know," she starts, gently. For his part, he seems unmoved, shoulders broad as he flicks potato skin into the trash. Even grunts in response. "I guess I've never really given it much thought, before, because we used to be so busy with pre-kishin and stuff, but-"

"You're a teacher, you kind of have to like kids. Like a prerequisite. Otherwise you'd really hate your job, Maka."

She bumps elbows with him. "A love for knowledge can trump anything."

"Okay, nerd."

He thinks he's so good at playing it cool. Frustrating, overgrown butter knife; he hasn't fooled her since he was fourteen, thank you very much. She knows what to look for now. Knows the way his neck lights up with color and the way he fidgets and stuffs his hands into his pockets. Lip twitches, too. Like it is, right now.

He'll peel himself into a frenzy, if she lets him. The anxiety will tear him apart and he'll peel every potato in the house and they'll be eating mashed potatoes for days. She reaches out, gingerly, and rests her hand on his back, feeling the way his shoulders flex and move as he slides a finger-blade down over the vegetable. She wants to scold him, for a moment, for being too lazy to rinse the peeler and instead using weapon appendages to cheat his way through the dishes. Wants to poke and prod him for using his demonsteel for household chores like a spoiled little cheater cheater pumpkin eater.

But she doesn't. His lips are sort of pressed together too tight for her to nag. Brows taut. She hates it when the lines in his face are that sharp.

"Hey," she mumbles. " _Soul._ "

"What."

"Do you… did you… ever think about having kids?"

He blushes so brilliantly she thinks she might be staring into the sun. " _ **What.**_ "

Great. Now she's blushing, too. Perhaps she'll never be able to tame her wildfire courage into something a little more tactful - there could have been a lot more lead up into that one, ugh. "I mean-!" she blurts, then blushes harder, then takes a deep breath and schools herself into stone. "It's okay, if you have? Because, I haven't, really, given it much thought, but, I mean- we're _married,_ aren't we? And that's… that's a thing couples talk about, usually. We should talk about things."

He exhales shallowly. "You talk too much."

"You don't talk enough!" she chides. "Soul, please."

And so he shrugs. Tries so very valiantly to hide behind those walls of his, walls that haven't worked since he finally worked up the nerve to kiss her, years ago. "... I've thought about it."

"You have?"

Humming noncommittally, he fills the pot more. "Yeah." There's a long pause, and she lets him collect his thoughts, rubbing a warm palm over the soft fabric of his shirt. "I just… didn't wanna rush you."

"Huh?"

He looks at her, finally. Warm, shy eyes and all. "You didn't really… I didn't think you'd ever marry me, and then you did, and I was- you know," he gestures weakly, with a scythe-finger, "... really happy, yeah?"

"Yeah," she says, smiling tentatively.

"And it's good. I love being married to you. I wouldn't marry anybody else. I've never even entertained the thought, really, but…"

Her hand slides down his shoulder, fingers brushing the skin of his arm left bare from his tee-shirt. He's warm, she notices. Always so warm.

"... I don't know," he says, finally, shrugging again. "I didn't think I'd ever get married, and then I did, so I didn't wanna… press my luck? And, y'know, there was never any worry about accidentally getting you knocked up, so we never really had to talk about it. Always just sort of assumed you didn't want kids because you're a devious adrenaline junkie and like going around murdering the monsters that hide under beds. I didn't think you'd ever want to give that life up."

She blinks at him. He stares back, expression open. So long, walls. Torn down, brick by heart achingly honest brick.

"Cuz I'm happy, you know," he continues, and it's funny, because he's never been particularly good with words before, but there's something about the threat of hurting her that seems to inspire eloquence. And by funny, she means it isn't funny at all, and Maka itches to reach and take his face in her hands and kiss him until that wrinkle between his brows is ironed out. "I'm really happy, Maka."

"But… you could be happier?" she tries.

Soul bites his lip. "I don't…" he sighs, and the flash of light tells her he's back to 100% flesh and bone and boy. "... You already make me happy, yeah?"

He's told her, at least three times in the past five minutes. Such nerves. Maka nods encouragingly. "Yes?"

"I love you," he says, and now she's blushing more than he is, she thinks. "And I'd only ever want that if you did too. Plus, it's… a long process, if it ends up being something you wanted? And, uh, it depends, really, on how you feel, too, because donors are a thing and-"

She knits her brows together. "It'd be me?"

"Yeah. It'd be you." He nods, too. "... If that's okay? Cuz-"

Soul stops, raising his brows. It's like something is dawning upon him, and he's nearly sixteen again, and he's got that look on his face - the same one he'd had when she'd worked up the nerve to confess to him, right before he'd leaned over and kissed her silly. Such eager, nervous joy.

"There's." He turns, fully, to face her, clearing his throat, "... another option, too. Still expensive, but if you do… if it's something you want, but you don't want to surrender your womb for nine or so months, we could. Um. There are other options, too. If you want it."

He's animated, now. And as confused as she is, it still sort of warms her heart. For as nonchalant as he'd tried to play it - he's thought about this, clearly. Weighed his options and probably thought so deeply about her needs and wants, like the secretive little darling he is.

She only wishes he'd speak up about the things he wants.

"... Let me think about it?" Maka touches his wrist, then, and leads his hand to her lips. She kisses his damp knuckles and smiles, only a little, when he nods again and sighs.

"Of course."

His voice cracks. She grins. He blushes, then yanks his hand back and replaces his wide-eyed, hesitant glee with a scowl. "Don't you dare."

"Cuuuuuute!" she squeals, and he quickly pouts, instead, like a petulant toddler. "Aw, Soul - your voice used to do that all the time, come on! It's been so long!"

Try as he might, but he cannot squirm away from her grabby hands, and she's pinching his cheeks and standing on her toes to giggle, right in his face. "No, ugh- Makaaaa!" he whines, even as he breaks out into a laugh, too, and she's cupping his face and bouncing to try and get him to kiss her.

.

Two days later, she's in bed with him, and it just sort of happens.

"... We could adopt?"

Even in the lowlight of her reading lamp, she can still make out the warmth of his eyes. Such dark, dark eyes, for a boy with the softest heart she's ever met.

He blinks at her, groggily, cheek propped up on his forearm, hair a mess. She's already tucked her nightly novel away, and he's got one hand up her shirt. It's not a sexual thing, not really - he's not actively groping her, just resting his hand on the warmth of her skin, fingers fanned out to cup her heartbeat in his hand, and if his palm happens to be resting on her breast, then, whatever.

"Mmm…" Sleepy boy, barely coherent. She should have waited to drop such a bomb, but how can she, when he looks so sweet? "... That's."

She nods, biting her lip. He moves, slowly, blankets rustling around them, and then he's wiggling up to look at her, squinting in the dark. A socked foot hooks around her ankle, and the hand that'd been resting over her heart slides up to cup her jaw, instead.

"... Wait."

"You should really get glasses, Soul," she says, grinning a little. "You're straining."

He's grinning too, now, so brightly; she can see the glint of his teeth, the way his lips pull unabashedly to frame his glee. "You- you're sure?"

"About the glasses? Yes, absolutely. Your eyesight is horrible, Evans."

"Evans-Albarn," he says, pouting only slightly. "And mostly _Albarn,_ really - and no, you dweeb, you know that's not what I meant. The other thing."

The _other thing._ Her tummy's kind of flip flopping and she feels like there are butterflies trying to take flight within her, but she can't stop smiling. Can't stop basking in the sheer glee in his expression and soaking it up into her own. Like resonance. Her cheeks are going to fall off from smiling too widely and she doesn't even care. Worth it, to see the look on his face.

His thumb brushes along her cheek. "Mmm, oh," she says, playfully naive. "What, the thing about adoption?"

His whole expression jumps. He scoots closer, even. Presses his chin to her shoulder and his lips keep twitching up. He can't keep from smiling, either. "That. That thing."

"Oh." He's soft, with the way he handles her, and touches her, and she wants to melt beneath his touch and kiss him and be kissed, please. Such high spirits are infectious, and she thinks she might be feeling some residual newlywed glee - silly, because they've been married for two years now, no matter how cute Soul is when he plays with his wedding band. "I asked if you would want to adopt."

Somehow, he manages to wiggle closer. He'd been nearly asleep only moments ago, but he's found his way on top of her, arms bracing him around her face, nose-to-nose. She tangles her fingers in the worn, loose collar of his sleepshirt. "You… yeah?"

"Mmmhm," she hums. His skin is so warm, and she would really like him to be less clothed, for a bit. Would like to soak him up a little more, skin-to-skin. "I trust you."

"This is more than trust. Bigger." His breath is warm on her lips. Kiss her, kiss her. "You've gotta be really sure. Extra double sure. It'll change a lot of things."

"It'll make you happy. It's making you happy right now. You keep smiling."

His fingers run through her hair, but he still hasn't kissed her, and that's a damn crime. Bully. She loves him so much. "I want it to make you happy, too. It'll be a long process, and it'll be stressful, and- and it'll change things, you know, and it's-"

"Expensive," she says, and takes matters into her own hands, tilting her head just enough to graze his lips. Just a peck. A hint of what she wants, but it's clear this is important to him, and she'd said it herself - it's probably something they should talk about. "It's expensive."

"Mmm." He nods, and bows down to kiss her again. "But I think it'll be fine. Wes would bend over backwards, if it meant he got a niece or nephew to spoil rotten out of it-"

"I thought you didn't like using your parent's money?"

"I'm not doing so bad myself, you know," he says, a little smugly. "As the current acting Death Scythe, I've been able to save up a bit."

"H…" She blinks, wetting her lips. "How long have you been preparing for this, Soul?"

He leans back, a brighter, rosier pink, now. "Nooo, I haven't-" He stops, then, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. Smiles, a little guiltily. "It wasn't for that. _This._ Don't really think it's a bad thing to save up, just in case? But I always thought, you know, maybe, if we needed it, it'd be around, if not for a baby or a kid, then, like, an actual house, or-" he shrugs, clearly still too excited to be even a little embarrassed about how blatantly expressive he's being. "... a pet, or something."

"Soul, we have a pet."

"We have a roommate, who just so happens to turn into a cat." He presses his forehead against hers. "Maka."

"Hi."

"You want a kid? With me?"

It's still a little scary, and it'll take getting used to, but it's exciting, too. "There's no one else I'd rather raise a family with, Soul."

His pure, unadulterated glee is palpable. Maka can taste it in the eager way he kisses her, how he cups her face in his hands and accidentally tugs her hair. It's okay, though; she's never been one to shy away from a little pain, and besides - _besides,_ she sort of likes it the rare occasions he's a little rougher with her, though she'll never admit it. Likes that he sort of knows she's strong and kickass and can take a bit of hair pulling, can take a line of love bites up her waist.

Speaking of which. Her lips are suddenly Soulless. She blinks, lost in the dark, staring at the ceiling as he disappears beneath the sheet. "H-Hey, where-?" Maka squeaks, but he's got both hands on her hips, her nightshirt pushed up to her chin and he's kissing her ribs. Then her stomach. "Aaaah, _Soul-_ "

She can feel his smile, pressed to her trembling thigh. "Love you."

.

It's hard to say who is more excited - Wes or Blair.

Upon hearing the good news (" _We're adopting!"_ she'd written in the email, with about three smiley faces and a few sparkly heart emojis for good measure) Wes had promptly picked up the phone and called not just his brother's number, but hers, shortly after. Hadn't even waited for the phone to ring twice. Just hung up and dialed Maka, instead. And of course she'd picked up.

"BABY!" he shouts. From her side, Soul raises a brow, and Maka jumps, holding the phone away from her ear. "BABY! Or kid! _CHILD_."

She taps the speaker button. "Hi, Wes."

"Hello, Maka. Is my baby brother there? I have words for him. Many words. Immediately."

Soul shakes his head and crosses his fingers around his neck. She mock-kicks him and he presses her feet back down into his lap, pouting pathetically. "Yeah, he's here, Wes. You're on speakerphone."

"Nooo-"

"SULLIVAN MURIEL EVANS. YOU _SLY DOG_ , YOU."

He repeats: " _Noooooooooo."_

The smile is practically tangible. She can see it in his voice, and that doesn't even make sense, even with something like soul perception. Wes is halfway across the country but it's like he's in the room anyway, excitedly shaking Soul's shoulders and bouncing up and down like a child on Christmas. "I can't believe you didn't warn me! I didn't know you were going to ask her! You were so anxious about proposing, I thought for sure you'd lean on your big brother again for this one, too!"

Soul groans and melts back into the couch. Leans his head back and everything. "Evans-Albarn, Wes. And Sullivan isn't even my name. You're making that up."

"Yes, sorry, I suppose you are right. My bad." He clears his throat. "Sullivan Muriel Evans-Albarn, I cannot believe you didn't warn me that you were going to be a father! My own flesh and blood, a liar!"

"It- _she asked me!_ " Soul blurts, blushing. Maka wiggles her toes at him and he pinches her ankle. "It's not even lying if I didn't tell you beforehand. You know, lots of people don't announce when they're thinking about having a baby, so that's-"

"Lying by omission!" Wes says. "A foul. I demand pictures, whenever they become available. I want to know who I am going to be shopping for and spoiling. You are off the Christmas list, Soul."

"Hey!"

"Maka is fine, however. Though I am slightly hurt she did not think to lean on her big brother, either." Maka chokes back a laugh, pressing her fingers to her lips. "I am here for you, Maka, if you have something to share. Always. And nobody knows this little punk like I do, you hear?"

"Yes. Sorry." It just sort of happened, anyway, truly - and they've been married for a bit, so she hadn't even thought it that strange to spring on him. He'd sprung it on her, really, being so thoughtful and gentle and awakening things in her she hadn't known existed. The thought warms her, makes her send a shy, happy little smile his way, and she's floored to notice he's already sporting a matching grin.

Goodness, they're hopeless. A pair of lovesick, expecting idiots. She sets the phone on the back of the couch and picks her book back up.

"Do we have a timeframe?"

The smiles only damper slightly. "A while, Wes."

"... and how long is that?"

Soul sighs and returns to her foot massage. "Could be a few years, yeah? It takes time."

"That's fine. That just means I have plenty of time to prepare my uncle jokes."

Her husband snorts and takes to brushing a thumb gently along the length of her bare calve instead. "Glad it's okay with you, Wes. Since it's going to be such a big change in your life and, y'know, _ours._ "

There's sudden weight on her lap; Maka oofs and lowers her book, just enough to catch a pair of furry, purple ears perking. "Nya! Speak for yourself, this is huge!"

"Blair," Soul says, and Maka reaches out to stroke the elegant line of her back. "Don't egg him on."

"When would Blair ever do that? She's a good kitty," she says, pleasantly, turning and turning until she finds a comfortable spot on Maka's stomach and promptly becomes a donut cat. Wisely, Maka tucks her book away for safe keeping; it's not like she'll be getting any sort of leisurely reading done while there's so much conversation going on, anyway. "Her kittens are going to have a kitten, too!"

Her fuzzy kitty face is so warm. Maka doesn't even scold her, not while she's nuzzling into the palm of her hand so sweetly. "Good things take time."

"Then the new kitten will be a _great_ thing," she purrs, wriggling her ticklish whiskers. "Blair's going to teach them everything she knows!"

From the speaker, Wes hums in agreement, and Soul shoots her an exasperated half-smile.

.

"... wh- _mmmMMMAAKAA!"_

Soul sets his _#1 Dad_ mug down on the table, Papa points a shaking finger in the doorway, and Maka realizes they've severely overlooked the truth.

How could Wes or Blair ever hold the title of most excited while Spirit Albarn, helicopter parent and enthusiastic father, existed?

He may be a grown-ass man in his 40's, but he completely bypasses shock and elation and speeds straight into full-out _sobbing_ ; even Soul isn't safe from her papa's bearhug, and the two of them are squished, cheek-to-cheek, while Spirit absolutely blubbers. There's a beat or two where neither of them can react, fully, and Maka eyes her weapon's mug with something akin to envy as it sits, untouched, next to his breakfast.

"Ow, quit it, old man-!" Soul grunts, squirming. He's hunched over so awkwardly, and Maka knows it must be uncomfortable for him; he hasn't been her height in many years, not since they were preteens, and yes, that is definitely his ear pinned against her temple, yikes. "Leggo!"

"MY LITTLE GIRL, ABOUT TO BE A MAMA, I JUST CAN'T BELIEVE IT-"

"The eggs! Are burning!" She tries, valiantly, to tap out on the kitchen counter, but it proves fruitless. There is nothing left in the world but crimson-dyed hair and the smell of Papa's cheap aftershave. "Papa, please!"

He relents, but only after planting a kiss on her forehead and a noogie on Soul's. He clears his throat, straightens his suit, fiddles with his tie, but there's still a distinct mistiness in his eyes that Maka can't manage to be annoyed with. There are things she can fault her father for, definitely - infidelity, a penchant for expensive booze, being overprotective - but she cannot fault him for his supportive nature. Even… even when it's a little unorthodox. And kind of weepy.

She shakes her head, smile on her face. Stupid Papa.

"... I like your mug," Spirit says, finally, almost begrudgingly.

It's funny, the way he still tries to act irritated with Soul - funny, because he'd just had his daughter's weapon locked up in a very damp hug, because they've been married for years now (and together for much longer) and they'd spent many a night drinking together and waxing poetic on how much they adored her. Stupid Papa, she thinks again, shaking her head. He should just come out and admit that he likes Soul already, for goodness sake.

Soul flops back down into his seat and takes another sip. Winces, like maybe he's burnt his lip a little. "Whatever."

 _Men._ Sigh. And they say she's the stubborn one.

"Where'd you get it, brat?"

"Cool guys don't buy themselves cheesy mugs," Soul says, very much pouting. "It was a gift."

Spirit looks to his daughter. "You got him one and not your own loving Papa?"

"Not me." Maka stabs at the eggs with her spatula, further scrambling her ruined attempt at an omelette. "Blair."

Her father hums and rounds on her, again. Maka turns the burner down to a simmer, just in case. "And… and this is serious, right? This isn't just a kink thing, is it?"

" _What."_

"This whole 'daddy' thing is really in with the kids nowadays, and I just- Papa wants to be sure, before he gets too excited-"

"PAPA," she screeches. That's just- no, not _her_ \- and certainly not Soul, who does a fantastic spit take and spews coffee all over his breakfast. "Of course it's the real thing! Why would you even ask that, ew! We talked about it, and it was something he's always wanted, and I gave it some time and just…! We're _adopting_ , okay. And Soul's not into that, stop giving me that look."

Mortified doesn't even begin to cover it. Another thing to fault her papa for: always having his mind in the gutter. That's scarcely a thing Maka even knows about - just something Black*Star likes to tease her with, sometimes, something that Soul always whacks him over the head for.

But he recovers quickly. Water under the bridge. Spirit stops squinting suspiciously at the daddy-to-be and beams at his daughter instead. "Baby!"

.

She's excited, but sometimes she can't help but worry.

It's a long process. Adoption isn't as simple as deciding they want a baby and then just… getting

a baby. Even pregnancy - which takes, what, 9, 10 months? - is over and done with more quickly, she thinks, chewing her lip as she tucks her things into her bag. And it's stupid, getting so antsy over it; she hadn't even really thought about it much before he'd sort of brought it up to her, those four months ago, but as her students file out of the room, laughing and elbowing each other out the door, her heart feels heavy.

They don't hand out babies to just anyone. Good homes. Safe, constant homes. And sometimes Maka wonders if her home is really safe at all.

She slings her bag over her shoulder and sighs.

From a young age, Maka knew she was going to be a meister. She'd grown up with it, knowing that was her future, her destiny; without a scythe blade popping out of her back, she'd just sort of known that was the road she was going to take. And she'd given it her all, had never really given it any thought. It was a given, that the daughter of Death Scythe and the meister who made him so would one day attend the academy, too. Obvious. Fate.

It hadn't struck her as weird as the time. How could it? She was 12, and she finally had a weapon partner. A scythe. The world was on her tiny shoulders and she was ready to take it on, with or without parental supervision.

She was _12_ when her best friend nearly died protecting her.

Her stomach turns.

It is the life she lives, though. The life she'd always wanted to live. Though… she stares absently at the corner of her desk, chewing her lip. Maybe it'd been the only life she'd ever known, and tiny, motherless Maka had wanted any sort of routine in her life. And as rough and dangerous as it had been, meisterhood had given her that goal. Death City had bred another disjointed, ignorant warrior, ready to reap in the name of Lord Death.

And maybe that life - _her life_ \- really isn't very safe at all.

.

"... Do you think I'll be a good mother?"

The rumble of his voice feels sort of funny against her back. Soothing, though. "Huh?"

"Never mind."

Bathwater sloshes and splashes around them, and she squirms a little, nervously, between his legs. His knees poke out around her, legs too long to fit comfortably in their old, tiny bathtub, and she focuses on them, instead - tan, slick knees - to keep herself busy.

"No," he starts, sliding her damp hair from her neck. "What?"

Nothing ever gets by him. Maka sighs, popping bubbles anxiously, nearly melting beneath each gentle graze of Soul's fingertips. It feels silly, to bring it up now - they'd been so happy snuggling, Soul so content to coil himself around her - but it'd felt big, and important, and she can't seem to keep it from eating away at the excitement that still practically glows from him, inside and out.

"Do you…" Breathe. "Do you think I'll be a good mother?"

He doesn't answer right away. She knows, of course, he's probably letting it sink in, collecting his thoughts, but without the instantaneous validation she runs cold. She fidgets, and as Soul leans over to turn down his sappy bathtime jazz playlist, Maka has half a mind to dunk her head underwater and become one with his bathbomb.

But she doesn't. She couldn't escape even if she wanted to; he's much too cuddly these days, and slides his arms around her waist and tugs her back to him soundly, hooking his chin over her shoulder. They fit together, like pieces to a puzzle, and it's hard not to find comfort in it; that somehow, despite this fucked up, backwards life they live, there's still someone for her. Someone who completes her, who compliments her.

"... Do you not want to do this?" he asks, finally.

"No!" Yes? "No, that's- that's not what I meant," she gasps, wriggling, sliding slickly against him. His scar - the one from Ragnarok, from collarbone to hipbone - feels funny on her back, all jagged and frankenstitched. She pivots, slips and slides, until she's sitting and facing him, knees tucked beneath her, and only blushes a little as she sits taller, breasts definitely rising above the bath.

He only peeks a little. Blushes, too. "Are you afraid?"

"I'm never afraid," she says, very stubbornly, very afraid. "I just… I wasn't raised the way you were."

His hands slide and rest along the small of her back. "By maids?"

"No! Like-" Her hands drop, and the water splashes him in the chin. "I didn't really have a mom growing up? It was more like… I always knew I was going to be a meister, Soul. My mom didn't do anything but raise me to be a meister, despite what Papa said, and- and she's not even here anymore, so I don't…"

His brows raise. "Ah."

"Don't _ah!_ "

He tugs, and they nearly lose half of their bathwater over the edge as she slides and molds herself to him instead, chest to chest. Impossible to hide anything, when they're skin to skin. Nothing can physically get between them. She can feel his heartbeat, can feel the way he laces his arms around her and holds tight, even as her knees cram awkwardly at the foot of the tub.

"You've gone a pretty good job of taking care of me," he mutters, and oh, his lips are so close. She can feel every breath he takes, every graze of his mouth. "You'll be fine."

"You were twelve when we met. This is different."

"Yeah, but _you_ were twelve, too." Soul kisses the corner of her mouth and she melts. Just a little, okay. She's weak. "And if you can manage to keep me alive that young, you can raise a baby no problem. You're the strongest person I know, Maka."

Unfair. He cannot say such sweet things and not expect her bones to become pudding. Especially not while they're literally naked and on top of each other. For a girl who had so scarcely felt sexual attraction, there's something about Soul that seems to check all of her (admittedly few) boxes and really get her going.

She swallows that pill down. Not now. It is not the time to get frisky.

"I'm your meister," she says. "That's not fair. I'm supposed to be physically strong."

He leans his head back. Looks at her, sort of moony eyed. "I think you're all kinds of strong."

She's not. She cries at videos of puppies and lifetime movies and when Soul bleeds out in front of her. She's Maka, and she hasn't had a mother figure in her life in years, and the closest she has is Marie - who acts as everyone's mother, out of necessity and sheer kindness - and Blair, half sexy cat, half wayward roommate.

Maka bites her lip and says, "I don't want to mess them up. I just… meistering is all I know. I don't know how to be soft and gentle and warm bottles, Soul. I can teach them how to swing a scythe and where to land a blow to do the most damage. I can teach them how to provide quick battlefield first aid, but I don't know how to burp a baby.'

"And you think I do?"

"You probably have more of an idea than I do!"

He snorts, and rubs his hands up her back. "I spent my childhood playing the piano, Maka. And then when I came over here, I was more invested in keeping you from jumping off a building and trying to keep the black blood from sending me off the deep end."

"That's-"

"You love a lot, Maka," he interrupts, and he's got this serious look on his face, thoughtful. Like he's really concentrating, and she stills, staring at him wide-eyed. "Like. More than anyone I've ever met. And- I dunno, I think that's all a good parent really needs. We can learn the rest. But learning how to love unconditionally is a lot harder, I think, then figuring out how to swaddle."

He's so damn serious. She sort of wants to pinch his cheek, because such kindness and honesty shouldn't be allowed.

"... You're blushing," he says, grinning, grinning, and Maka squeaks and tries to slip away but escape is futile. " _Makaaaaa_."

"You're the worst!" she whines, slipping around; he's got such a firm grasp on her, and when she tries to turn away he cackles and cradles her in his arms, smushing his cheek against hers. He's a venus flytrap of cuddles, and rest in peace, Maka Albarn, death by cavities - he's just too sweet, and it's illegal, coming from a boy who shies away from physical contact. She's created a monster, surely. A _snuggle monster._ "Soul!"

He blows raspberry on her cheek. "You're so _soft,_ Maka."

"Eeeew! Gross, Soul!"

"My meister is so soft," he singsongs, grinning, still. "My _meister's_ gonna be such a cute mom."

"Nnnngh!"

Jerk.

(She loves him.)

.

Good things come to those who wait, though.

It takes a while. And it's frustrating, sometimes, and disheartening, between the long waiting periods and homestudies - watching Soul sit there in a stuffy turtleneck, clearly trying very hard while also trying very hard to _not look like he was trying very hard_ \- it all feels like it'll never come into fruition. The excitement wanes, sometimes, and it's tiring, being interviewed the way they are.

"It's for a good purpose, though," she tells him (and herself, really). "They don't just hand babies out to anybody. We have to pass the test."

Soul sighs and flops onto the couch. A turtleneck might not be a leather jacket, but it's still charming in its own right, and she sort of stares a second too long at the strip of skin exposed on his stomach as he raises his arms. "I'm terrible at test taking."

 _Well,_ she thinks, hiking up her skirt and climbing on top of him, _that's why you have me._

They have ways of keeping their spirits up.

It's not all for nothing, though. The apartment might be a bit small, but there's an open bedroom, now that they sleep together, and while the social worker sort of eyes their magical cat oddly, Blair's charms do work now and again. It's the nerves, she thinks, that really get to them. Soul more than her.

.

A year later, it finally happens.

Soul literally kicks in the front door, breathless. She's expecting him to smile, or shout, or something - give her some sort of clue, really, but he's got this shellshocked wonder on his face and it's hard to read him when he's like this. There's always something ticking, always cogs working behind those wine-dark eyes of his, but he's just- he's here. His phone is in his hand and he's here, hair windswept from his motorcycle.

Maka's heart leaps into her throat. She dries her hands on a dishrag. "... Soul?"

He swallows thickly. "I…" He holds up his phone with shaking hands. "We've been selected. Maka. _Maka._ We've-"

He doesn't whoop in glee. He's still not even smiling.

He sort of staggers over to her, and she's definitely grinning and babbling in her excitement, as Soul wraps his arms around her and sort of just… falls into her. And she bounces there, in his arms, linking hers around his neck and jostling him until he leans enough for her to kiss him.

And if his lips are a little damp, and if she tastes a hint of salt, well, she doesn't say a word. Cool guys don't cry, after all. Who is she to take that away from him?

.

Their baby boy has weapon blood.

It's fitting, she thinks. Where safer, for a child of potential weaponhood, than the Death Scythe's home? The steel may not manifest until later in life - or not at all, there is always the chance of that, too - but at least it is something Maka feels comfortable handling. She has _handled_ weapons her entire life. This, she can handle.

And, okay, maybe she can handle babies, too. She's taken classes. _They've_ taken classes. They've both held babies before, and this- this is doable. Maybe one day, their son will sprout blades - or will become a gun, or whatever his weapon blood takes the form of - and they'll be more than prepared to guide and love him. And even if it doesn't, and he's just a perfectly, normal baby boy - and even if he doesn't want to wield, and he doesn't make the same choice she did and become a meister - well, that's okay, too. Because they love him.

And children should be allowed to make choices. Make their own decisions. Shouldn't be forced to lead a life they don't want, just because it's what their parents know.

Soul squeezes her hand in his. "You ready?"

"Mmmhm."

"Nervous?"

She thinks her stomach might fall out of her butt. Or that she might barf. "Yes."

"Cool." His hand is a little clammy and it's weirdly comforting. "Me too."

It's not as if they're taking him home yet. It's just a visit. The first visit. They're just meeting their possible-probable child for the first time and Soul's in that stupid turtleneck again and Maka's forgone her combat boots in place of cute loafers. She laughs, a little, at the sheer absurdity of it - of the two of them, nervous over meeting a 5-month-old, _ha!_ \- and Soul catches her eye with a grin.

They fought a kishin on the damn moon. They can _do this._

There's strength in numbers, after all. And who better than to take on this challenge than her partner? They've been through it all together, through thick and thin - she's never trusted another person the way she trusts Soul, never loved another person the way she loves him, and who else, really, could she ever do this with? She can't think of a greater strength than the two of them, hands clasped tight. Just the way it's always been.

"Courage?"

What a dweeb. "Courage. And everything in between," Maka says, yanking him down to smooch his cheek.

"Gross," he whines, rubbing his palm over the area she'd kissed like a complete brat. As if it didn't bring such adorable color or that crooked, heartwarming smile to his face. "You're lucky you're cute, Albarn."

He should take a good look in the mirror. Nudging him toward, Maka reaches out for the doorknob and says, cheekily, " _Albarn-Evans,_ remember?"

.

Riley finally comes home, a few months later.

It's almost funny, watching Soul interact with him. Funny, because he'd been so sarcastic and annoyed with Spirit doting on her, but he can't seem to leave the poor kid alone for even a moment. He hovers, gingerly, going as far as to crawl onto the floor with him for tummy time, sprawled out on the blanket Tsubaki had knitted them, chin propped up on his arms.

"Hey there, little guy," he says, for what must be the fifth time. " _Hey._ "

Funny's not quite the right word. It's- it's humorous, maybe, a little, and it certainly brings a smile to her face, but the warmth in her chest doesn't feel much like laughter. It's brighter. Sunnier. Feels less like it's going to burst from her and more like a sated, comfortable happiness. She likes the way it feels, actually. It's been a long time since anything's made her feel quite so free, or- or really, truly, contentedly _happy._

Soul opens and closes his mouth. Almost goes cross eyed. Makes popping noises with his lips, and Riley garbles and reaches out with him with his clumsy baby hands.

"If you're not careful, your face is going to freeze that way," Maka says, sitting cross-legged by him.

He blows a raspberry and Riley giggles. "Worth it."

Keeping herself from leaning over and kissing him is impossible. His forehead is warm, and even after she's leaned back and sat up straight, her hand still sifts through his hair. It's hard, not to be touching him, not to seek out physical contact, even as he babbles right back at their son ( _their son!_ ) and makes silly faces.

He's _happy,_ Maka thinks, with a smile. So happy he can't contain it. _So happy_ that his mastery of deadpan snark and resting bitch face can't even hide it - he's practically glowing, and knowing him so fundamentally, soul-deep, and sharing such an intimate personal bond with him makes it all too easy to read his joy. It sort of chokes her up. Certainly makes her a little misty-eyed.

Soul sighs and rests his cheek against his arm. "He's perfect."

"I don't think I've ever heard you call anything perfect before."

"Yeah, well." He blinks, and oh, maybe his eyes are a little wet, too. _Soul._ "Miracle of life and all that jazz. Whatever."

" _Sap,_ " she says, fondly.

His lips press together as if he'd tasted something sour. Pouting, pouting boy, caught so redhanded, feeling soft, squishy things. "Don't project, Maka, it's not cool."

" _Sooooul."_

Scooting, he rests his weight on his elbows, instead, and offers an outstretched finger out to Riley. He stares, blinking up at him with those wide, dark eyes - such doe eyes, Maka thinks, really pretty eyes, curtained with dark lashes, too. Those eyes could get away with murder and she'd be none the wiser, probably; there's such unfiltered, untamed innocence in those eyes, such bright curiosity.

They'll be in trouble, some day, if they can't say no to those eyes.

Baby boy crawls his way over and grabs onto Soul's finger with his chubby little hand. Her weapon gasps, smothering back a wide smile. "Good grip. Like his mama."

Laughing, Maka flexes an arm. "He learned from the best."

Soul waggles his finger and Riley garbles some more. "You've gotta be artsty too, though, okay? You can wrestle and play football with your mother all you want, but we've gotta bond over something too in our own time. Like movies. Or music."

"Piano?"

He exhales. "Piano, maybe. We won't push it."

"He could be a weapon."

"He could." Soul shrugs his shoulders slightly. "But even if he isn't, that's cool too. We'll find something. Little guy's gonna be cool as hell."

They're quiet, for a while, merely watching him, taking him in. It's different, having another body in their home, another entity. It breathes new life into their old apartment, life these walls haven't contained since the years of thirteen, fourteen, fifteen - it's almost full circle, in a way. Maka's new life as a meister had started here, at barely twelve, with a brand-new scythe living only a paper-thin wall away. And his new life had started here, too, nearly thirteen, away from the weight of his parent's expectations and free to be himself.

And now there's new life, again. Quite literally. There's an infant, eagerly nibbling on Maka's husband's pointer finger.

"We've gotta get him some teething rings," she says, after a beat.

"Little guy's already got a few teeth." His finger's being chewed on, but Soul seems more in awe of it than bothered.

Maka continues to run her fingers through Soul's hair. Pushes his bangs from his face and smiles, too, as he plucks his finger from their son's mouth. "Let's hope he doesn't take after you, in that aspect."

"Haaaaa," Soul laughs, then cocks his head like a bird to grin at her. "What, don't want chompers coming at you while you're trying to feed him?"

"I should count my blessings I will never get to breastfeed those bad boys. Your poor mother."

He mock-bites at her. "You like them."

She does. Very much. But she likes so much about him that it's hard to really rank them on a list. She likes his sharp teeth just as much as she likes the way he holds her hand, and just as much as she likes the way he keeps looking at her, as if she'd given him the world. As if this hadn't been a joint, group effort, shared between the two of them.

Maka pinches his nose and Riley giggles. " _Your face is going to freeze like that."_ And then she'll never be able to keep a blush from rising on her face again, and that just isn't right. She has a reputation to uphold, okay. She cannot rival the sun at all given times. There are students to teach, dammit. Pre-kishin to still intimidate. Future preteen to mother. A pesky cat to scold when she drinks all of the milk and forgets to tell anyone about it.

He doesn't stop, though. Doesn't even snap out of it a little bit. "Thanks," he says, quietly, very seriously.

"I really didn't do much-"

"No." The expression irons out, just a smidge, and there's such blatant, thawing honesty there it sucks the teasing from her voice. "Really. Thanks, Maka."

Such a weighted gaze. But she is not afraid, not of this, never of him or his feelings. Maka wears her courage like a cloak and her heart on her sleeve and shakes her head, smiling. As if it'd ever been hard, ever, to love him. The hard part had been trying to find a way to put it into words, trying to find a way to share all of the joy he'd given her, somehow.

"What are friends for?" she asks, then, sliding her hand down to cup his cheek. She's thrilled to find such heat there. "I'm your meister, you know. I want whatever makes you happy. It makes me happy, too."

" _Friends,"_ Soul scoffs, shaking his head. "I think we're a little more than friends, nerd."

But he's smiling, too, so softly, pushing himself up to sit so that he may kiss her, lips soft, mouth warm. It's a quick kiss, a simple _I love you,_ and even if they wanted it to be deeper, they couldn't; they're both smiling much too widely to really get tongues involved, anyway.

Plus it's kind of stinky in here. They blink at each other, confused.

Riley whines.

"NOT IT," Blair yelps, leaping from the arm of the couch and darting down the hall like a bat out of hell. " _PARENT'S HONORS."_

Well, they've killed a witch. They can probably change a diaper.


End file.
